


Hanzo: Koi no Yokan

by franklytriggering



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franklytriggering/pseuds/franklytriggering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo struggles to rein in his delinquent brother, Genji, as their father's health wanes and obligation demands their answer. While their fate speeds towards its inevitable breaking point, Hanzo wrestles between family tradition and his wayward emotions-- marrying well, or giving in to his own needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 _Meiwaku (_ 迷惑 _)_ _: an annoyance, an inconvenience, a nuisance. The resentment that results from being troublesome to others, through your own ignorance or selfishness. In Japan, children are taught to avoid causing meiwaku from a very young age._

 

Hanzo never got used to heights.

He stood with his nose almost touching the glass, forty stories up, gazing out at the fog blanketing Fukuoka. It sucked up the ground, made it seem he was above the very clouds. If the glass disappeared, or one of the suited Iwata pig-dogs behind him shoved him through it, Hanzo might fall forever and ever.

He breathed in, then out, hands folded at his belt. No matter how many trees climbed, buildings scaled, wires walked, roofs zip-lined between. He never, ever got used to heights.

Hanzo stood next to his father, in a loose line of suited tough guys at the back of a sky-high restaurant.To say Hanzo felt naked without a weapon was understating it; he physically felt lighter. He didn't anticipate an attempt on the _kumichō's_ life, but it only took being wrong once. Behind the door to the VIP lounge, a neutral security worker provided by the hotel ran a handheld metal detector over each man as they entered. This was nothing more than a formality to show that both sides were playing ball. Any man in this group could kill any other with his hands and feet.

Hanzo scanned the restaurant. Not a single diner had so much as glanced at the shoulder-to-shoulder parties of _yakuza_ since they'd entered. And yet, they must have at least once, to ascertain who these thick-necked men in suits and sunglasses all were. It was a curious contradiction, a skill all Japanese seemed to possess. Hanzo smirked; he had often ruminated whether the talent for subterfuge that ran in his bloodline might be shared by the whole nation.

Following at his father's shoulder, he entered the VIP lounge. He glanced around the room's offerings. A private bar, comfortable furniture, marble ashtrays on a long black table that swallowed all the goldish light that touched it. He had seen better; he had seen worse. After being checked for metal, he took a seat at the corner beside his father, who sat at the head.

The  _saikō-komon_ , Uwaru-san, sat across from Hanzo and folded his hands on the table. Directly to Hanzo's right, the chair was empty. He grumbled irritably, like a dog.

Some two dozen sets of eyes and pairs of sunglasses trained intently on the two men at the head of each table: Shimada-sama at one end, Iwata-sama at the other.

Iwata was a frail old guy, kind of flamboyant. His magenta suit stuck out like a deep bruise. Iwata cleared his throat.

"Forgive my mistake, Goro-san." 

Hanzo flinched; Iwata used his father's given name.

"All this time, I mistakenly thought you had _two_ sons. Forgive a stupid old man his ignorance," said Iwata. On the face of each of Iwata's company, silent amusement drew their cheeks up almost imperceptibly.

Hanzo's hands squeezed into fists. He was angry. Angry at Iwata's tone, his insult; most of all, angry at his brother.

Shimada clapped his hands as if wiping off dust. "Well, Daimon, as long as I don't have to spend my entire Friday night with you losers, maybe I can pick up a waitress to help me make another."

Laughter boomed in the little lounge. The tension parted like a knife slicing a taut rope.

Hanzo grinned. It was a terrible joke, but in a single breath, his father had eased the hot tempers threatening to set the room ablaze, as well as deflected Iwata's insult, and avoided any further discussion of Genji. Hanzo found his admiration for his father never waned, in fact swelling every time he saw the old man in his element.

"To business, then," Iwata sighed. He called for a whiskey. "This will be the first in a number of negotiations that, fate being generous, will lead to an end to hostilities between our organisations."

Shimada smiled. "I prefer to play black, given the choice. You go first."

 

_*_

 

Alone in the elevator, Shimada loosened his shoulders and spoke to his son openly.

"When did you last see Genji?"

Hanzo growled, "Before getting dressed. I took my eyes off him long enough to have a shower."

Shimada grinned at his feet. "Silly of you."

Hanzo didn't reply.

"I'm sure he'll find us at the station tomorrow, if all else fails."

"Or he'll turn up in a week."

"Nonsense. You both have training on Monday evening. He never misses that."

"Mm."

The LED display ticked from 38 down to 37. 36, 35, 34…

"You're mad at him," Shimada chuckled.

Hanzo kept staring straight ahead. "Yes, I am."

"Try not to be."

"I refuse. And we've had this conversation so many times that it has lost all purpose, so forgive me if I just skip it."

Hanzo winced at the sharp slap across his temple. The old man could still make a move before Hanzo had time to blink.

"I apologise for my insolence, father."

"I forgive you. Don't do it again."

Hanzo turned to face his father. "You _must_ understand why I get angry! At a certain point, it is the carpenter's fault for continuing to use the broken saw! Genji made you look idiotic in front of Iwata's entire cabinet!"

"Did you think I looked foolish, then?"

"His behavior is getting worse. How much has he been spending?"

"I'm aware of your feelings about your brother."

"Then _why_ do you--"

Hanzo bit his lip and angrily breathed out, like a dragon. Goaded into another spat about Genji, and as usual nothing would change.

He pressed the number for the nearest floor and got out early, leaving his father to ride alone.

 

*

 

Hanzo took the stairs the rest of the way to his suite.He changed out of his charcoal suit into a polo and swim shorts. He placed a call to hospitality, watched ten minutes of news, then rode the elevator to the fourth floor. He overlooked the ground floor, a valley of polished obsidian beneath a balcony made of gold rails and ice-blue energy beams. He crossed the wooden bridge over a three-storey artificial falls, water rushing over flat river stones just under where his feet walked. 

He slipped through a gilded door that read 'SPA'.

A flash of artificial light on a cloudy chrome surface sent a twinge down his arms and legs, a just-noticeable shot of adrenaline. The clerk at this antechamber's desk, standing with perfect programmed posture, was a bare-faced Omnic. Japan's slice of the global Omnic Crisis had been expressed most critically through the Skindolls, which wore outer coverings that made them completely indistinguishable from humans; so, it was paradoxical that seeing them without their flesh covering still made Hanzo uncomfortable, since in truth it signified passivity.

It wore a vest and tie like a human. It bowed to him, like a human.

" _Shimada-sama, konbanwa,_ " it trilled. Its voice sounded permanently auto-tuned. "The spa area has been emptied and cordoned as you requested."

"I should hope so. I gave you enough time."

The machine bowed again. "Please sign in right here." It handed him a tablet and stylus. Hanzo did as it asked. "Here is your locker key. The _onsen_ is to your right, the gym to your left. The pool area--"

"I'll find my way somehow." Hanzo started towards the locker room.

"Please remember to rinse your feet."

Hanzo's eyes flicked back to the Omnic. His fingers twitched. The machine was just following a service protocol, making no distinction between a Japanese national like Hanzo and the hotel's overwhelming number of _gaijin_ guests. In their own strange way, the Omnics were always out of step with custom, marking them as _gaijin_ themselves-- even when they had been designed and manufactured on Japanese soil.

Hanzo forgave the insult and kept walking, but his blood still urged him to twist the thing's head off. They had souls, it was being said now; if you revenged them, they could feel it, and they would know why.

In the locker room, Hanzo stripped in solitude. A labyrinthine tattoo of a dragon, fangs bared and riding a lightning storm, painted his entire back and left arm. At anyother _onsen_ in the country, you'd be turned out for so much as a heart stamp on your wrist, or a butterfly on your calf. This blanket policy shared by an entire culture was designed precisely to keep people like Hanzo out.

In this hotel they bent over backwards for Shimada Hanzo, because they knew what was good for them.

Clutching a towel around his waist, Hanzo hummed an old tune to himself, one he couldn't remember where he heard, as his thick feet slapped the stone floor on the path to the _onsen._ He dipped his feet in the shallow pool provided, but not because the robot had asked him to.

The lush plants and black stone in here were all real, brought in and placed by hand to perfectly recreate the scene of a rural hot spring, but with a roof and walls that lent the privacy of your own living room. Hanzo realised immediately, however, that he was not alone. For a moment he was livid; but just for a moment.

The young man lay with his head back, perched on the craggy stone lip of the pool and partially submerged. His eyes were closed. He swirled a hand towel in the water, a long white eel moving in continuous circles. Hanzo watched as every so often, the young man lifted the soaked towel and wrung it over his face and chest, sighing with delight when the hot water splashed on his skin. He did it so slowly and so regularly it drew to mind a _shishi-odoshi_ fountain in some serene garden.

This was Takahashi, one of the Shimada-gumi's accountants. Hanzo knew the man. How did he sneak in here? Curious.

Hanzo climbed a small flight of steps and stood at full height on the spring's edge.

"You're an imbecile," Hanzo said, his tone deliberately ambiguous.

Takahashi opened his eyes and his head lolled to the side. "Aah?" he groaned, inviting Hanzo to complete his thought.

"I saw the color of flesh in my peripheral vision. My hand flew, instantly, to the hidden blade which is never away from my person. My immediate instinct was to throw it and lodge it in your neck while you lazed over there with your fool eyes shut. I asked for this place to be empty, and took you for a killer. Lucky you-- I hesitated, for which I am unbelievably aggravated with myself. How will you make it right?"

Takahashi smiled, and giggled. His wet hair strung over his eyes.

"A hidden blade?" he said, eyeing Hanzo up and down. "I don't see many hiding places."

Hanzo sniffed. "It could be up my ass."

Takahashi blinked, then rattled with high-pitched laughter. He covered his mouth, but the whites of his teeth still glimpsed out behind his hand. He had a wide smile. 

He was adorable.

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

 

Hanzo dropped his towel. He waded into the searing, soothing pool. Takahashi's eyes drunk in Hanzo's shapes, his body a living weapon precisely honed. Takahashi slipped off the rocks and into the water to receive him.

"Hanzo… Oh…"

"Shimada-sama," Hanzo corrected. "We're not that familiar. Not yet."

"O-of course, sir. Forgive me."

Takahashi's body was not a fit one. He was slim, but his stomach bore flab, his pectorals loose. His limbs were skinny, the soft muscles of on-again-off-again gym memberships dwarfed by Hanzo's, whose tendons were like bowstrings.

To Hanzo's eyes he was exquisitely flawed.

Their bodies came together like rolling waves, and disturbedthe hot water. Splashes and Takahashi's groans tapped the walls and made rippling echoes. Takahashi's breath singed Hanzo's neck more than the steam.

"I knew." Takahashi's voice struggled in his throat. "I knew since the first time I saw you."

Hanzo grimaced. Did he have to talk? "Yes, I remember. At father's wedding."

 

 

*

 

" _Ah!_ Shit!"

Shimada had knocked his champagne flute over and spilled on his black groom's _haori._ He laughed, and the room laughed with him. A waiter swiftly appeared at his side with a cloth. Hanzo smirked to himself. This was surely their dead ancestors' revenge on his father for eschewing a nice, traditional sake in favor of fizzy French urine.

Hanzo was not in any danger there. He took a furtive sip from his petite ceramic cup.

He reached for the chilled sake bottle to get himself a refill. Yuki's powder-white hand beat him there. Hanzo's eyes traced a trail up her arm while she poured, from the indigo nail polish past the prayer bead bracelet, up the wispy arms-- utterly weak, but nice to look at-- to her cheeky grin. Her round cheeks were dusted with red. Was it rouge, or liquor?

"Drunk already?" Hanzo sneered.

No one but Hanzo would've noticed Yuki's smile fall that fraction of an inch, but it did. "It's a special occasion!"

Anxiety tightened his throat. She used to find his brusqueness overpowering, irresistible. Now he just felt he was intimidating her. She had become too sensitive. It would pass.

Hanzo tilted his head towards his father's seat at the table's center. " _Otousan._ Do you feel up to carrying Yuki out of here tonight? My back is giving me hell." He rubbed his spine for emphasis.

"Only if you're lending her for the evening."

Shimada-sama laughed. Yuki rolled her eyes and sipped her sake.

Hanzo sensed that a line had been crossed. He reached for Yuki's hand-- it was chilly-- and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

Shimada-sama leant over and bellowed: "So when is it your turn, _Ha-kun?_ "

Hanzo let a smirk tug at his lip. He didn't like that nickname. He opened his mouth, but Yuki answered first.

"Hanzo is still-- what did you call it? 'Assessing the situation'?"

Hanzo bristled, but kept his smile up. "I never used those words."

"No, you said… you were 'measuring the angles'. You said there was no hurry."

"I _did_ say that. I said if we intend to spend our lives together, there is no hurry."

Yuki wagged her tongue, like a smarmy child. Hanzo reached over and twisted her ear, an affectionate thing he did whenever they bickered. She swatted at his hand, and he caught it, entwining their fingers.

In his peripheral, Hanzo picked out a set of eyes that had scarcely left him since the reception had started. A young man, a handsome one with a face as straight as an arrow, nursing a bottle of Asahi. Hanzo recognised him, vaguely; his name was Takahashi and he was supposedly an accountant. Father had hired him earlier in the year. Good of him to turn up; good for his image.

Hanzo read hunger in this Takahashi's persistent gaze, subdued but ravenous. He let their eyes meet long enough for the young man to turn away and take a furtive gulp of beer.

Hanzo tongued his canine. Fancy this runt eyeballing him; the whelp had no idea what he'd be dealing with. It would be fun to humble him.

As if to reassure himself, Hanzo looked at Yuki and squeezed her hand again. Again she squeezed back.

Boorish hollering from just beyond his father's chair:

"Hoy, Yuki! What about that threesome? You give it any thought yet?"

Their father and the male guests guffawed. Genji made a V with his fingers to wag his tongue between, like a dog.. Yuki's eyes went wide and she looked away at nowhere in particular, shielding her face with her palm.

Hanzo stood. "It's been a while since Genji and I caught up," he announced. "Brother, why don't we go have a cigar?"

Hanzo guided Genji, less than gently, upstairs to the venue entrance. He coerced Genji into getting his shoes on by offering one of a handful of fat, aromatic cigars from the pocket of his dress coat. If Yuki had been tipsy, Genji was well on his way to being properly shithoused; his long hair kept swishing in front of his eyes with every bouncing step, and strands of it stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Don't like this place," Genji slurred. "This building."

"The _building?_ What's wrong with the _building?"_

"'S a fake, can't you tell?"

"It's a heritage building. It's been here hundreds of years. A samurai lord lived here."

"Did you read that in the brochure?" Genji stuck his tongue out. "It's bullshit. It's made to look old, but it's not."

"Genji, no piece of this building is younger than two hundred years."

Genji tapped one of the wooden supporting beams and ran his fingers across its surface. "Look, this was cut in a factory. You can tell 'cause the grain repeats in a pattern between the beams... Bet if I cut a piece off there'd be concrete underneath."

"So it's been restored," Hanzo conceded. "Bits of it fell apart and they brought it up to code again. Nothing lasts forever. Anyway, who cares?"

"Then it's not one thing or the other, is it? That's worse. It's like a Frankenstein."

"A what?"

"Never mind."

They stepped outside into the chilly evening. The garden was nice; the one back at Hanamura was nicer. Hanzo finally got Genji to stand still, and they shared a match to light their smokes. Hanzo savored his while Genji took big, theatric puffs.

"It's not a cigarette," Hanzo scolded.

Genji sighed. "That's what was so important you had to drag me out here? To lecture me on cigar technique?"

"Let's spar, and I'll lecture you on that, instead."

Genji threw his arm around Hanzo's shoulder and shook him. "It's a _pa-a-arty_ , it's a special occasion. Aren't you happy for father?"

Hanzo snorted long and loud. "It's his third wife! This one was born after mother died!"

"Well, perhaps she reincarnated, and has come back to us!"

Hanzo barked a laugh, genuinely amused. "Then what a sad state of affairs she's come back to."

" _Urrgh!_ What is your _problem?_ "

"What do you mean?"

"You're always on the job. You're always on the lookout for _woooo,_ hidden killers!" Genji waved his hands around, _spooky-dooky._ "You can't ever just relax."

"You embarrassed my fiancee. You're embarrassing yourself."

"So you have asked her to marry you, then?"

Hanzo sucked his cigar tip. "You just started university."

Genji smirked. Hanzo recognised that look. When they sparred together, Genji had a habit of cheating. He'd make up moves outside the rules and try to catch Hanzo off guard. It would work once or twice before Hanzo would adapt and counter it handily; then Genji would smirk, just like he was now, and try again with something else.

"That's right, my first year is over soon."

"Congratulations."

"Oh, thank you, big brother!" Genji fawned, making a show of it.

"Are you at the head of your class, like I was?"

"I'm head of the classes I want to be head of."

"Ahh! Study period and lunch break."

Genji was struck, and couldn't answer for laughter. "Okay, that was funny."

Hanzo grinned and his mood softened. "Savor your time there, little brother. I couldn't wait to finish, to be done with education. I wanted to _do,_ not _learn…_ " Hanzo sighed. He looked at the Tokyo skyline peeking over the stone fence. "To have the Shimada clan legacy resting on your shoulders… it would be nice to be able to copy someone's notes. Not that I ever needed to."

"I thought you relished being father's lapdog."

Hanzo closed up again. "His _heir._ Just like you. And it's a deep honor. An enormous honor."

Genji rolled his eyes. "I don't think I want anything to do with that."

Hanzo's eyes bulged and he glared down at his brother. "It's not a _decision_. It's your birthright."

"Then it's my right to refuse it."

Hanzo took a deep breath and swallowed his anger. "You're drunk, so I will pretend this didn't happen. If father heard you talking like this he'd cut your tongue out."

Genji shrugged. He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "After I graduate, I want to go on a trip."

"You ought to do it before then. Afterwards--"

Genji continued. "I mean, I want to take some time off. Travel."

"Time off." Hanzo stewed quietly.

"I want to see Italy. Maybe Germany… just Europe, really. All of it."

"And you'd never come back."

"Of course I would." He didn't sound certain. He threw himself on Hanzo, and shook him. "Because you _nee-ee-eed me,_ right?"

Hanzo nearly dropped his cigar. He coughed violently and unwrapped himself from Genji's boisterous hug.

"I must piss."

He left his cigar smouldering on a stone and returned indoors. Finding the bathroom was something of a mission, and he got a little lost in the old place's long, dimly lit corridors, but in the end he found it.

He bumped hard into the bathroom's previous occupant just as they were exiting. Hanzo dusted himself and frowned.

"Watch it, you moron."

"Please. Forgiveness, please, Shimada-san."

It was that accountant, Takahashi. Hanzo glared down at him, privately thrilling off his embarrassed expression.

" _Sama_ ," he corrected, and pushed past the pen-pusher into the bathroom. Takahashi bowed profusely and disappeared around the corner.

 

*

 

"Three years." Takahashi's fingernails dug into Hanzo's back. "Three long years, but finally you're mine." He sounded desperate. His legs splashed around in the water as he spread them.

"No." Hanzo gripped a handful of Takahashi's wet hair. "You have it backwards."

After that, he made sure Takahashi stopped talking.

 

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The trill of Hanzo's cellphone pulled him from a shallow dream, a restless rest.

The screen read precisely as he'd hoped: 'GENJI CALLING'. Hanzo answered.

"Where have you been? Where are you?"

Genji didn't answer. The other end was silent-- no, no it wasn't, after all. There was ambient noise, background commotion that spoke volumes. Genji's laughter and snatches of inane talk between him and at least two women. The call had been accidental.

Anger coursed through Hanzo's blood like thick black ink. He took a bracing breath, and he listened.

Hanzo pressed the phone as tight against his ear as he could get it. He closed his eyes, gently as if easing himself into meditation. The dissonant scrabble of noise scraping his eardrum became deeper to his hearing, layered like a diorama. Imaginary scarlet light formed an invisible room in the darkness behind his eyelids, one detail at a time.

Genji's voice and the girls' were equally clear, so Hanzo placed them sitting right next to each other, even touching shoulders. The density of raw noise suggested a tightly enclosed space. There were almost no voices, just Genji's and his girl companions, so they were not at a bar. No music, so not a club. No singing; not karaoke. The yawning rush of train or traffic was also absent. A restaurant? No; Genji's voice was clear as a bell, no noodles or hamburger stuffing his cheeks to mush his speech. Hanzo wrinkled his brow. This was tricky, but left very few probabilities.

Once he'd narrowed those down, he tuned to a bitcrushed sting on his eardrum, the trill of a video game cabinet; specifically, a _Street Fighter II_ machine. The sounds perfectly matched those Hanzo would overhear through the bedroom walls as he studied at his desk. For a second the creamy sunset tones of nostalgia clouded his mental picture, then the red glow of irritation returned.

Hanzo ended the call and used the phone to Google arcades in Fukuoka. There were three, and only one of them would be large enough to cater to the sort of clientele who want to play a fighting game over a half-century old. Genji was at Taito Station Tenjin.

Hanzo dressed in the nearest clean clothes, a polo shirt and slacks. In the old days, ninja disguised themselves as farmers, beggars, drunks. Hanzo would be a tourist. He did not fear being seen by Iwata's clan any more than usual; but it would be equally bad to be seen by the news vultures drinking in the lobby restaurant and smoking by the valet parking.

The pale pink polo didn't hide his tattoo. It was too warm, however, for anything that would. _Hell with_ _it,_ he thought, and put on his shoes. _The dragon will get some air._

He cast a glance back at his empty hotel bed. Yuki was in Tokyo. He did not care where Takahashi was. A momentary pang of some nameless emotion stalled him.

Hanzo left the hotel still frustrated, still trying to name it.

 

He found Genji on the basement floor of Taito Station. Any one-on-one fighter you could name, stacked in egg carton rows, skinny young men entranced by their jaggedly bright light. The whole place smelled of cigarette smoke.

Hanzo bumped into someone; no, someone bumped into _him._ He immediately put his heels down, and tilted his narrow eyes down to the Taito Station employee, a red t-shirt with the blocky hieroglyph of a space invader at its breast, an ID badge hanging from his neck by a lanyard.

Hanzo snarled: "Watch your _fucking step."_

Mouth half-open to reply, the attendant's eyes fixed on Hanzo's left arm, and the sight of the winding blue dragon must have slowed down time; the clouds peeking up to lick at the _yakuza's_ collar must have made his bladder ache.

" _Sumimasen,_ " he gushed, bowing his head almost past his waist. " _Sumimasen, sumimasen._ " He stepped away and was gone, vanished into the maze of machines. Hanzo sniffed; that affinity for subtlety, to become invisible. There it was again…

Hanzo finally located Genji at the geriatric Tekken machines, fading and blotched grey cabinets from a bygone era, a simpler one. Genji kept having to whip his head to get his long, gorgeous hair out of his eyes. Two girls sat either side of him, as tense as if watching the World Series, as if watching a _real_ sport.

Hanzo sniffed and waited.

The character Genji presumably controlled landed the final blow and won. Someone on the other side of the row, hidden from view until now, swore fit to rattle the dead and threw an ashtray at the concrete wall where it exploded into ceramic shards.

Genji lit a cigarette. His companions fawned over his idiotic imitation of a victory. Hanzo folded his arms.

One of the girls pointed Hanzo out, and Genji lit up at the sight of him.

"Onii-san!" Genji crowed. He was very drunk. "Did you see that?"

"I don't have a clue what was happening."

Genji shrugged. "Well, the short version is I picked up King as my new main last month and I'm kind of a porn star." He blew smoke. "I'm a prodigy, that's all there is to it."

A pair of red-shirted employees had arrived on the opposite side of the cabinet, to inform Genji's latest victim that he had to leave-- and presumably intended to replace the destroyed ashtray. One of them lingered too long in a glance at Hanzo; he shivered, feeling exposed, feeling too noticed.

"You missed the summit."

Genji rolled his eyes. Hanzo swallowed another viscous lump of rage.

"I know, I know. You think I needed to be there."

"You _were needed._ There is a _difference._ "

"You really didn't need me!" Genji threw his hair back. "I would've just fucked it up anyway. All those customs, all those rules."

"Then _try harder._ "

Genji shrugged. "Nah."

Hanzo nearly swung at him, but bit the rage down in time. He instead lifted a quivering hand to scratch his chin, rub his forehead. Then he clapped his palms once.

"Party is over," he said to the women. " _Begone._ "

One of the girls sneered, ugly and mean, too much lipstick, prepared to argue. Her doe-eyed friend sensed they were in real trouble, and pulled her away before things got worse. The girls' heels clattered up the concrete stairs, past the attendants who had been not-very-subtly eyeballing Hanzo since they'd come to replace the ashtray, and then they vanished.

Genji rubbed his face and coughed up smoke.

"Time to Go, Genji."

Genji snapped: "Play me first. One match. I'll pay."

Hanzo felt like he might suffer a stroke. Anger burned his lungs, his throat, making him open his mouth and utter a dry sound. He bit hard on his tongue and inside of his lip, and glowered at his younger brother, the withering glare of a dragon regarding the audacity of a curious fox, wandered into the den.

Hanzo crossed to the row's opposite side. A chubby, pimply kid had replaced the unruly player from before to loiter at the machine. Hanzo threw him aside. A fresh ashtray sat on the console's dashboard, blocking the buttons, a butt gently smoldering. Hanzo swatted the thing aside and it flew like a hockey puck across the row and then it, too, shattered-- and loud. The attendants by the stairs wrung their hands and pulled their cheeks, but did nothing.

Hanzo sat at the Tekken machine opposite Genji's.

"Coin!"

A 100-yen coin materialised in the air just over the machines. Hanzo snatched it out of the air like a foe's _shuriken_ and thumbed it aggressively into the coin slot.

Hanzo chose a character called Jin; he looked stronger than anyone else on the menu. Genji picked the odd cat-headed wrestler called King.

Hanzo knew how these games worked, on a base level. You move and push buttons and you fight. Simple. He knew, from a handful of games years past and cultural osmosis, that the moves changed depending on the direction you held when you pushed a button, and the best players could string these together mathematically into physically impossible chains. He had never _felt_ it, though. He realised for the first time that certain buttons punched, certain ones kicked; then discovered they corresponded to one body part each. One button blocked. He found he was actually amazed by the intricacy.

He fumbled and flailed, his fingers like beef hamburgers, but he landed a few good blows. Soon, his frantic, unpredictable style even took him a single round over Genji, a triumph that brought a sharp yell from his throat.

When it was done he found himself craving another bout, just one more, surely; but he hid his desire, and the embarrassment he felt at his loss.

"There," he stated as he stood up. Genji stood as well, and they met eyes over the top of the arcade cabinets.

"That was fun," said Genji.

Hanzo wanted to say ' _Not really'_ or something similarly glib. Instead he just grunted. He turned his head as he left to make sure that Genji was still following.

 

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

"I've never made you watch _Tetsuo the Iron Man?_ Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Genji lit a cigarette, using his jacket to shelter the flame from the wind on the street. "I wonder if we could get time to watch it together."

"What is it about?"

"A guy turns into metal. The less you know going in the better. It's _fucked up._ "

They started their journey down the halogen- and neon-brilliant sidewalk toward the gold-ringed tower of their hotel at the far end of the skyline. Despite the modern aesthetic of Fukuoka it still maintained a kind of sleepy charm, with more trees and less traffic than you saw in Tokyo. A curious, treasured blend of old and new.

"When did it come out?" asked Hanzo.

"1989."

Hanzo balked. "That's almost a hundred years ago!"

"A lot of those old films still hold up, big brother."

"You are obsessed with the past," said Hanzo. "Old movies, old video games, old music. Why are you so fixated on these things? A world long before you were even born. What are you searching for?"

"Nothing."

"Are you afraid you need a gimmick to be interesting? Do you feel you can't keep up with people your own age?"

"Go to hell."

They stopped at a crosswalk. Hanzo's nose curled from the smell of Genji's cigarette smoke.

"You ought to quit those," said Hanzo. "They'll slow you down."

Genji didn't even bother answering. Hanzo continued anyway.

"I suppose when you ruin that set of lungs, you could get a new pair put in. They don't just do limbs anymore."

"Would you shut up?"

"I read an article about it last week, while we were riding the train. Made from super-advanced polymers, more efficient than the real thing. They're putting them into soldiers in the West. Artificial hearts, too."

The crosswalk lit up green and politely chirped that it was time to cross. Genji flicked his half-finished cigarette into the street.

"You know that kind of stuff grosses me out. Surgeries…"

Hanzo smiled, satisfied. He did know.

Halfway to the hotel, Hanzo realized he was getting tired. He yawned. He glanced briefly at a sliver of the moon through a break in the clouds; then back on the ground at the two strangers at the end of the block.

Genji asked "Do you see them?"

"Of course I do." Hanzo pretended to be interested in the clean, lit-up shop fronts as they kept walking.

"Are you armed?"

Hanzo snorted.

"What are they carrying?" asked Genji. "Your eyes are better than mine."

Hanzo looked at the outlines of the approaching _gaijin_ in their crisp suits. One was swarthy and the other green-eyed. They may as well have had rainbow wigs and red noses.

"Handguns. The left has his holstered under the shoulder, the other on his hip."

"They wouldn't shoot us in the middle of the street? Would they?"

"Let's ask them."

The four of them crossed paths under the blazing pink sign of a karaoke parlor. The foreigners reached into their jackets; one under the armpit and the other at the hip, just as Hanzo had said. Then all four stopped walking.

The one on the left, the dark-skinned one with the goatee, swallowed. He asked, in English, "How did you see us coming?"

Hanzo's unsheathed _tanto_ pressed into the brown stranger's belly, enough to give him a sharp prick. Genji had flicked a _shuriken_ out of his sleeve and into his two fingers, holding it so two of its points touched the white man's neck, on either side of his Adam's apple.

"Alright, alright, take it easy, now." The white one's English was heavily accented; Hanzo had trouble understanding it.

Hanzo slipped into his own, imperfect English. "Easy?" He pushed his _tanto_ harder. The dark-skinned one winced.

"For fuck's sake, truce. People are starting to stare."

Hanzo looked around; indeed, a couple of young toughs smoking and drinking on the other side of the street were looking at the four a little too long; as well, a couple behind them had stopped and clutched each other tightly.

"Genji."

Genji curled the throwing star back into his palm and then vanished it. Hanzo's dagger returned to its sheath at the small of his back. The suited strangers stepped away from them and brushed themselves down. They all waited until the spectators had moved on before speaking again.

"Bad luck, fellas." Genji's English was better, looser. "Hey, _gaijin,_ let me see your piece."

The foreigners exchanged glances for a moment. The darker one looked exasperated and put his hands on his hips, then stared at his feet.

"Whatever, Jesse."

The white one-- Jesse-- flicked aside the hem of his coat to briefly reveal his holstered handgun. Its chrome shined pink under the lights.

"A revolver? A six-gun?" Genji gave a childlike laugh. "What are you, Dirty Harry?"

The stranger couldn't help grinning. "Heh. Wrong Eastwood movie, kid. But, I guess with the suit…"

"Yeah? Yeah, you like Eastwood?"

Hanzo interrupted. "Who are you? CIA? Or military?"

The dark-skinned one replied, "We're nobody."

"Definitely American," said Hanzo, quietly. "I know Overwatch has been pressuring the prime minister to crack down on the Shimada-gumi. I didn't know they'd graduated to running their own black ops. But…" He glanced at the nearby rooftops, shadowed in the poor weather. He pointed. "If you really wanted to take us out in the middle of a street, you would just set up a sniper. This isn't a real hit attempt. You wanted to show us how close you can get."

The one called Jesse laughed. "They're sharp. Like their throwin' stars. Prob'ly I could've hit you from that hotel over there, though."

"My name is Reyes," said the other one. "Listen to me, Shimada-san. You need to start taking Overwatch seriously."

"We do?"

The man called Reyes looked both ways before continuing. "The next few years can play out one of two ways. Your family, your clan, whatever you call it-- you have useful skills. You have resources."

"Resources you want."

"You have the chance to save yourselves the embarrassment of being systematically dismantled."

"Work for Americans?" Hanzo resisted the urge to spit. "If you're so sure, why are we having this conversation here? At least let me laugh in your face over a good _sake._ "

There was a palpable silence. Genji's laughter broke it.

"Their bosses don't know they're here!"

Hanzo laughed now, too, deep and hearty. "Pitiful! The strongest military on Earth and you come after us like a couple of street muggers. Begone."

Jesse drawled, "Sounds like a bust, G."

Reyes narrowed his eyes. "We reached out to your father already. He won't play ball. You could convince him it's the best thing for your organization."

Hanzo and Genji exchanged glances; their father hadn't told them that. Was it true?

"Do the smart thing here. Goro's pushing, what, seventy-five? It's your future you ought to be worried about, now. Not his."

Genji spoke, his voice tight. "Don't talk about our father like he's some… some dumb cattle blocking the road."

Hanzo nodded agreement. "I think this conversation is over. Thank you for the English practice."

Reyes pursed his lips and looked around again, as if expecting someone was watching. "I'd urge you to give it some real thought."

"We have already thought about it."

"Do the smart thing, Shimada-san. You'll be hearing from Overwatch, and me, one way or another."

The foreigners pushed past to continue down the sidewalk. The one named Jesse turned his head to tip an imaginary hat.

To Genji, he said "Seeya down the trail."

The brothers waited until the foreigners had disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. Genji looked shaken up.

"I think we should get a taxi."

They phoned for one, and a few minutes later they climbed into a cramped backseat that smelled of cigarettes. Hanzo's nose wrinkled.

Genji was silent for the whole ride to the hotel, and so Hanzo was too. When they reached their destination, Hanzo paid the driver with a bill worth twice the fare and hurriedly climbed out.

In the lobby, their footsteps echoing around off the shiny wood floors, Genji spoke.

"Why was he talking only to you? Like I didn't have a say in it?"

"Because you don't care about the family business."

"But _they_ don't know that. Do they?"

Hanzo cleared his throat. "I'm more interested in whether father's been hiding something from us."

"Should we ask him?"

Hanzo didn't answer. They reached the elevators and he pressed the call button.

Genji coughed. "I think I'm going to get a drink before bed."

"Do what you like." He bit his tongue, stopped himself from adding _'You always do._ ' The elevator arrived swiftly.

"Okay. I'll let dad know I'm back. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Mmhmm."

The elevator doors closed, and Hanzo was alone again.

 

The lights were off in Hanzo's room, and he didn't bother turning any on. He got undressed in the dark, pissed in the dark, brushed his teeth in the dark.

Even in the dark, the empty and unmade bed yawned before him.

Something seized his heart, tingly and almost nauseating. Hanzo fished his cellphone out of his discarded pants, and he called Yuki.

When she answered, her voice was faint and groggy. "Hanzo?"

"Hello, my love."

"Hi. It's so late. Is something wrong?"

Sitting on the end of the bed, Hanzo looked out the window, through the thin white curtains, at the rooftops. Was something wrong?

"No, nothing's wrong. How are you?"

"I'm good." She yawned. "How are _you?_ "

"Just fine." Hanzo sighed.

"How did the meeting go?"

"Well."

A brief silence passed while they both fished for something else to say. Hanzo went first. "I was out late with Genji. On the town. I'm very tired."

Yuki giggled. She sounded half-asleep. "Well, it's late. What were you doing?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. Drinking." Why did he lie? He knew why: the real answer sounded incredibly idiotic.

"Do you think you'll get a hangover?"

"No."

"Good. Your father wouldn't like that."

"No, he wouldn't."

Another aching silence. Hanzo stared out the window again. This time it was Yuki who spoke first.

"Hanzo, are you sure there isn't something wrong?"

 _Was_ something wrong? "No, Yuki. I just wanted to talk to you."

She was quiet for a second, then said "I don't believe you."

Which part didn't she believe? That nothing was wrong, or that he wanted to talk to her?

"Well, that's all there was to it."

Yuki yawned once again. "Well, okay. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow, then? I'm so tired."

Hanzo smiled, then remembered she couldn't see it, so he threw in a breathy chuckle. "Yes, I'm tired too. And drunk."

"Mmm."

"We can talk tomorrow."

"Okay. Good night, Hanzo."

"I'll see you soon."

"Mm-hmm, on Monday. I'll see you then."

"I love you."

"I love you too." Then she hung up.

Hanzo stared for a long time at the screen of his phone; then out the window at the nighttime Fukuoka, a sleeping constellation of lights; then at the empty side of the queen-sized bed.

He did not like feeling like this, and not knowing why. So he climbed under the covers, and he retreated into sleep.

 

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

In the pale light beneath the curved eaves of Tokyo's Kabuki-za theatre, Hanzo found his mind wandering back to that night in Fukuoka, not for the last time. All the threads had seemed to twist together in that one evening seven months before. In the years to come, Hanzo would often wonder if he could have done something different that night, something meaningful that might have steered things to a better outcome, rather than doing more or less nothing at all.

Hanzo's father drew his pocket square to cover his mouth against a fresh peal of coughing. His lungs were getting worse; this bout was enough to make Yuki turn her head away gently, as if to give him privacy. She squeezed Hanzo's hand in a quiet offer of support.

The foreigner with them, the graying blonde with a thick plug of a neck, gave Goro-sama a sympathetic frown. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather do this another time?"

Goro-sama shook his head. "My presence is required here."

The _gaijin_ \--his name was Morrison--half-smiled. "Well, we appreciate it very much, Shimada-sama." He straightened the cuffs of his dark blue suit.

Hanzo thumbed his nose and sniffed. Morrison's English was rough and he drawled like a bumpkin; Hanzo was grateful not to have to hear him butcher Japanese.

Across the street, the protesters were only getting louder. Hanzo read some of the signs; the usual shit, things like _'My heritage is not mechanical'_ or _'NO SOULS = NO ART'._ Hanzo took his father under arm to guide him through the security cordon and into the theatre.

 

As a party they entered the brightly lit Kabuki-za, where the lobby's ceiling brought to mind rice paper screens. Venue security was stringent tonight; Hanzo lifted his arms and allowed himself to be screened for metal. Among the subdued crowds beyond, he picked out the faces he recognized. These were father's discrete bodyguards, some half dozen of them in case the meeting with Morrison went south.

An attendant led them to an opulent VIP-only sitting room, all cream-colored upholstery and shining wood walls, with its own bar. They ordered drinks, and relaxed into some wide, soft chairs.

"What are we drinking to?" asked Morrison, glass poised.

Goro smiled gently. "To a profitable relationship."

"A profitable relationship," said Morrison. "That's good." All four of them clinked glasses, and drank.

Morrison was a decorated veteran from Overwatch, one of its founding members and most powerful instruments in ending the Omnic Crisis. Hanzo's father was not here in the capacity of the Shimada-gumi _oyabun_ , but as chairman of one of Japan's biggest construction firms. Morrison obviously knew the truth; but this was their way of talking about things without really talking about them. Ostensibly, they would be discussing the building of a Watchpoint in Kyushu, and that was true. The real conversation, however, was about the Shimada-gumi's future.

Hanzo thought about the men he'd met in Fukuoka, particularly Reyes. _"You need to start taking Overwatch seriously,"_ he had said.

"What are you thinking about?" Yuki asked him gently.

"Nothing in particular," said Hanzo. "Why?"

"You got that angry look on your face. That frown you get when you're thinking."

"Oh." Hanzo loosened up. "It's nothing."

Yuki sighed and didn't push the topic. For this he was grateful.

"My other son is named for this play," Goro-sama said to Morrison. Morrison smiled.

"For the play, not the novel?"

"Yes," said Goro. "I saw it on a school trip as a boy, and at the time it sincerely bored me. But the longer I went after seeing it, the more small details I remembered, and the memory of the thing blew up in my mind. Eventually I had to see it again, and again, and again."

Morrison leaned toward Hanzo. "Who are you named for?"

Hanzo answered, "The man who invented the heated toilet seat." Yuki elbowed him in the ribs.

Morrison barked a laugh; he had a movie star's smile. "That a joke?"

"Yes."

Morrison looked at Goro-sama again. "Where is your other son?"

"He has sent word that he will be late," said Goro. "I wouldn't expect him to turn up."

"What a shame."

Hanzo clenched a fist. Genji was embarrassing them again.

He distracted himself with perusing the programme. The art on its front cover matched all the posters on the cardboard displays and posters that had papered the lobby almost wall to wall. _Genji Monogatari--The Tale of Genji--_ with the role of Hikaru Genji played by 0K1RU, the Omnic film actor.

Hanzo grimaced. 0K1RU had made a name for himself on the foreign screen, but the country he called his home had been chilly in receiving him. This would be the first major theatre production in the country to star an Omnic in a major role. The decision was not without controversy--hence the mob outside, and the tight security.

Morrison took a gulp of whiskey. "Shimada-sama, this is your favorite play. You must have some thoughts about the Omnic actor."

Goro drew his pocket square to clear his throat into. "Most of my friends and colleagues think it's a disgrace. Of course, they've no other opinions regarding the arts, they simply hate Omnics."

"And you don't?"

Goro tipped his whiskey glass from side to side. "I will see him act, and then make my judgments." He sipped. "Yourself?"

"I got very good at putting down Omnics," said Morrison, looking at his lap. "But it was never personal. I never let it become personal."

Yuki sat up straight, nursing her glass of white wine. "Did you ever think they were evil?"

"For them to be evil, they'd have to be conscious. That would make them individuals. Individuals do evil, or good, or don't do either." He looked at Hanzo. "What about you, Hanzo-san? What do you make of all this?"

Hanzo pursed his lips and considered his answer. He drummed his fingers on Yuki's thigh. Hanzo tilted his head, and said "No souls, no art."

Yuki squeezed his arm. "You read that on a sign. What do you really think?"

"This is father's favorite play. He's seen it a dozen times. If he approves of the machine's performance, maybe there's something to consider. But if the thing has no soul of its own, it will be as a parrot squawking the broken words of its master."

Goro-sama laughed. "A squawking parrot. Yes, I like that very much."

Morrison stared down into his crystal glass, swirling the whiskey around and watching it cascade over the ice for a moment, then he looked up again. "Well." He held the glass out. "To the soul."

"To the soul," Hanzo agreed, and tapped glasses with him. Yuki and Goro-sama did the same.

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

"There's a phrase in Japanese," Hanzo whispered to the blue-suited foreigner. " _Mono no aware_. The word _aware_ appears in the original manuscript one thousand and eighteen times."

"Uh-huh," Morrison mumbled. "And what does it mean exactly?"

"There is no English word for it. It refers to a kind of sensitivity to the transient nature of life, a beautiful melancholy."

"I see. Sounds depressing."

"Foreigners often find it depressing. They are not Buddhists."

Morrison just nodded, and rubbed his stubbled jaw in thought. He watched with one ear tuned to the performance, and the other wearing an earbud attached to a digital audio player that explained the progression of events in English. This made Hanzo relax somewhat; if Overwatch were planning to make a move on the head of the Shimada, Morrison would likely not want to distract himself at all.

Hanzo watched the play from the comfort of their dark, private balcony. He scrutinized every movement, every syllable of 0K1RU's depiction of Hikaru Genji. He found himself surprised. The machine's voice had a tinny, artificial quality which was at first jarring, but once Hanzo was used to it lent a hollow quality to his voice, strangely enhancing the mournful tone. Hanzo had balked at the idea of a machine playing Genji, at a thing made of immutable metal parts trying to embody the spirit of impermanence.

But he had to admit now that 0K1RU brought a unique quality to the role, this thing cobbled together from disparate manmade scraps, glowing eyes unblinking under the stage lights. It could live longer than a human, or it could be smashed and taken apart at a moment's notice. Even its stainless steel could rust, become obsolete, weaken and eventually cease working at all.

Hanzo was not convinced that the singing thing on the stage was any more than a very clever puppet; but he would readily admit that 0K1RU made him consider the question in detail, and that his performance was if nothing else, very interesting.

Hanzo's cellphone vibrated. He drew it discretely from his jacket and looked. Genji had sent a text.

**_How is it??_ **

Hanzo felt the urge to crush the thing in his palm. He took a deep breath and stood up. "My stomach is troubling me," he said, and excused himself into the brightly lit hall outside.

Hanzo stared at his phone and paced, walking nowhere in particular. Should he send a curt response? Call Genji and berate him? Eventually he decided to ignore it. Without his father's backing, his anger was useless.

Hanzo did not like feeling useless. He walked down the stairs several floors until he found the VIP lounge again, and went inside to order a drink.

Halfway through his neat Suntory, a slim hand touched his shoulder. He looked up.

"Shimada-sama? Is everything alright?"

 

He punished Takahashi's mouth, and did not warn him when he was coming. Takahashi, kneeling, masturbating, began to mewl louder. Hanzo tugged sharply on his hair.

"Be silent, idiot."

Soundlessly, Takahashi came as well, spending himself on the tile between Hanzo's ankles. Takahashi sat up straight and wiped his mouth, then reached for paper to wipe up the mess.

Hanzo exited the stall first. He went to wash his hands, and saw Takahashiemerge behind him in the mirror.

"You should not have touched my shoulder," said Hanzo, while dabbing his palms with a paper towel.

"You're right. I'm sorry." Takahashi came up behind him, and Hanzo glared at him in the reflection for a moment before turning around and allowing one brief touch of their lips. He pushed Takahashi away, just in time for a fat man in a cummerbund to enter the restroom, and duck into a stall, oblivious.

Hanzo spoke in a lower voice. "Why did you become an enforcer? You are not cut out for it."

Wary of the other man, Takahashi didn't answer. He met eyes with Hanzo, and glanced at his own feet. Hanzo sniffed.

"You were better with numbers."

Takahashi dared to speak up. "Perhaps if I ever saw you outside of work…"

Hanzo shot Takahashi a look which ended the discussion. He exited the bathroom first, to return to the VIP bar and his unfinished whiskey, the agreement tacitly clear: _this continues as it is._

 

Sex with Yuki, by comparison, was slow, careful, even dainty. Yuki would think of it as beautiful; Hanzo found it rote, bland. She would try new things to excite him, risque outfits, new positions. Their lovemaking never had the primal urgency that arose when he dominated Takahashi. He found himself wondering, too often, if he was truly aroused by women at all. He would leer at a pair of large breasts or a nicely-shaped ass when he passed them in public, and if pressed he supposed he fantasized about men and women in equal measure--was Yuki just the wrong one for him? Or was he denying something to himself?

Yuki rolled over and opened her bedside drawer, drawing a thin cardboard container, a pregnancy test. She got up and slipped into a thin robe.

"The little soldiers don't work _that_ fast," said Hanzo, laughing.

"I haven't checked in a couple of weeks," said Yuki. She disappeared into the toilet.

Hanzo called after her to pierce the agonizing blanket of silence. "What did you think of the play? The Omnic?"

"I rather enjoyed it," Yuki answered invisibly from behind the bathroom door. "You would have as well, if you were there for more than half of it."

"I've seen it a dozen times." It was quiet again, so he added "I was arguing with Genji. I needed a drink." It was half true.

"Have you considered a future where you simply run the business without him?"

Hanzo stiffened. "Go on," he said to the door.

"He obviously has no interest in it. Why don't you just take full control? You probably wouldn't even have to buy him out."

A pang of anxiety tugged at Hanzo's lungs. "I'm not giving up on him. I can't. These things, they work a certain way--Genji has to do this. He simply has no option."

"Ah, yes. Honor," said Yuki. She returned from the toilet, her robe open around a creamy stomach and a curly shrub of pubic hair. "It's all about you men and your honor."

"That's right," said Hanzo. He frowned. "Don't make light of it."

She shook the little plastic stick at him before tossing it in the wastebasket. "All your honor hasn't gotten me pregnant," she said, a little more harshly than Hanzo would have liked. "Maybe if you stop struggling with your brother so much, you'll have some energy left to give me."

Hanzo sat up. "Don't talk to me like that."

Yuki climbed into bed next to him. She did not apologize, but she did not goad him any further, either. She rested her head on his chest.

Hanzo stared at the ceiling, feeling the cool breeze of the air conditioner across his chest and face. Hanzo wondered if she was just joking, or if Yuki truly blamed him for her not conceiving. If their positions were reversed, he certainly would. Maybe his body was betraying his heart.

He thought about what to do about Genji. He thought about erupting intothe back of Takahashi's throat. Eventually he slipped into unawareness.

 

"I had another idea for how you could propose to Yuki."

Hanzo breathed out and let go of his arrow. Fifty feet away it hit the bullseye, _thunk._ Hanzo wiped sweat from his forehead. He was in a foul mood, and the weather wouldn't even have the decency to oblige him; it was a bright and hot and cheerful day at Hanamura. Genji had just had his hair cut and smelled of floral cologne. Genji let loose an arrow and hit the target as well, several inches to the right of Hanzo's.

"Piss poor shot," grunted Hanzo.

"Ehh, I hate these things. They're big and clunky."

"You cannot hit someone with a shuriken from two hundred feet."

"Watch me."

Hanzo shot another arrow, _thwip._ "Tell me your awful idea."

Genji shot one, _thunk._ "You should take her on a total VIP tour of Tokyo Disneyland. Book reservations at Club 33. Pull the ring out in front of the castle. Or you could do the champagne glass or whatever, I guess. The point is, Disneyland."

"A perfectly juvenile scheme."

Genji was unfazed. "Now, if it were me--I'd take her out on the town, and I'd have the ring in a box hidden inside a claw machine somewhere, and then win it for her. Or have her win it."

Hanzo felt the momentary thrum of anxiety in his heartbeat that had lately become so familiar. His breath caught for a half-second as he aimed his bow, and let fly, _thunk._

Genji noticed. "What's the matter?"

Hanzo lowered his bow. His resolve broke for just a second, and then he realized that he couldn't go on with this for another minute.

"I don't want to marry Yuki."

Genji's eyes widened, but he didn't break form, lifting his bow and placing another arrow in the target. _Thunk._

"Whoa," said Genji. "Are you okay?"

"No." Hanzo crossed the yard to the target, and Genji followed him.

"How long have you felt like this?" They pulled the arrows out of the target and crossed back to set up again.

"Almost a year. Since Fukuoka, maybe earlier."

"Did something happen?"

Hanzo didn't answer. Genji persisted. "You can tell me."

Hanzo's shoulders slumped. He looked at his feet. "I've been sleeping with someone else."

"Holy shit. Who? Do I know her?"

"You know him. Takahashi. He used to be an accountant."

Genji bit his tongue thoughtfully. He got ready to fire an arrow, then changed his mind and lowered the bow. "So, are you gay? Or is it just Yuki isn't right for you?"

"I don't know."

"I get it." Genji raised the bow and this time he shot it. "So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know, Genji." For a minute Hanzo's pervasive anger with his brother was forgotten. "I don't know what to do. There must be an heir. Our blood must keep flowing."

"Do you believe that? Or are you saying it because it's what _otousan_ would want you to say?"

"I believe it."

Genji shrugged. "If you say so. It's your shot, by the way."

Hanzo lifted his bow, breathed out, and fired. Another bullseye.

"Do you want my advice?" asked Genji. He pulled his armguards tighter.

Hanzo sighed. "Yes."

"Don't marry her."

Hanzo glared at him and frowned. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple. It really is that fucking simple, Han-kun."

"I don't know how to live like you. I don't. I can't."

"It's really easy," said Genji. "I ask myself if I want to do something, or not. If I want to do it, I do it. If I don't want to do it, I don't do it."

Hanzo didn't want to get into another argument about the business, about their father, about Genji's constant screwing around. He just said, "It's not that easy for me," and shot another arrow at the target.

"Well, you need to figure it out," said Genji. "You can't marry someone you don't want to marry. You can't just suffer it out. This Soseki _Kokoro_ shit is so last century, man."

"Like your video games," Hanzo jibed. Genji laughed.

"Whatever, man. Like, you need to go get happy."

 _Happy._ Hanzo considered the word carefully. He considered the fifty, sixty years to come, locked in a union with Yuki, having the same painfully anemic conversations, through bathroom doors and over the phone. He considered what sort of man could bring an heir, a _child_ into a loveless marriage.

"I need to tell father," said Hanzo.

Genji nodded his agreement and fired another arrow. This one hit the bullseye, and he pumped his fist. "Yeah, brother. You need to tell dad."

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

Even alone in the hallway, Hanzo bit his tongue to stifle the yawn he had been holding for the entire meeting. The walkway between the restaurant and the elevator boasted a dark leather couch, facing directly out through the ceiling-high windows into the evening clouds. Hanzo sat there, and he dialed Genji. To his surprise, Genji answered.

 _"Oniisan._ What's up?"

Hanzo flexed his fingers, and spoke calmly. "Where are you this time?"

"I rented a bicycle and rode down to the beach."

Hanzo's nostrils flared. He could not help but comment, "In this weather?"

"The sun is setting behind some palm trees, I'm eating under the awning in front of a surf shack. It's totally vaporwave."

"I don't know what that means."

"Just more old shit. Is father angry?"

"He is never angry with you. I don't understand it, I can't understand it, but he is never angry with you."

"You are, though."

Hanzo pinched the bridge of his nose and scooted backwards, sitting as far back from the tall windows as he could. "You did the same thing last time we were here. You've made father lose face. Do you not care about him?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why…" Hanzo cut off mid-sentence, rubbing his temple.

"Because he doesn't need me. He has you."

A thought occurred to Hanzo, like a pebble dropped into a well.

"Genji, _I_ need you here."

Saying these words aloud made him feel like a simpering schoolgirl. He regretted them immediately. Still, Genji was silent for a long moment before he knew how to answer.

"Really?"

Hanzo nodded, invisibly, then managed to continue: "Please, be here by the meeting's end. Just make an appearance."

Genji was silent again, then made an exasperated noise, _"Aaagh._ Okay, _oniisan._ You've really got me cornered. I'll make an appearance."

Hanzo swallowed. "Thank you."

"I'll see you soon. _Mata ne."_

" _Dewa, mata._ "

Hanzo slipped his phone back into his breast pocket. He closed his eyes, and took a breath, then stood.

Takahashi was standing there, on his left, when he opened his eyes. The dark suit and silly sunglasses made him look like a magazine model.

"Is he coming?" asked Takahashi.

Hanzo frowned. "Eavesdropping?"

Takahashi furiously shook his head. "No, no, of course not, Shimada-sama. Just… context."

Hanzo sniffed. "Yes. He is coming."

Takahashi smiled wide, and bowed his head. "I knew he would. He does care about you, you know."

Hanzo canted his head; this whole line of conversation was exceptionally strange. He closed the distance between himself and the former accountant, put a single finger under Takahashi's chin to lift his gaze level.

"Mind your own business," Hanzo growled, with a canny edge to his voice, an almost playful show of dominance. He let Takahashi's lips brush his own for just a moment.

"Shimada-sama…"

Hanzo looked up. He glared. From around the corner, some other bozo in a suit had appeared, and stopped cautiously at seeing Hanzo and Takahashi; one of Iwata's men. The stranger gawked at them, as if shocked, as if disgusted. A thrumming red pulse of embarrassment flared in Hanzo's ribcage, under his stomach, in his throat. Gruffly he pushed Takahashi away, and gritted his teeth behind his closed lips. Takahashi looked pitifully between Hanzo and the Iwata enforcer.

Hanzo crossed the hallway with eyes narrowed, stepping surely, walking towards that stupid, suited man.

"What's the matter, imbecile? Are you some homophobe, some barbarian? I'll kiss all the men I damn well please."

The man broke instantly, bowing and gibbering his apologies, "Of course, of course, Shimada-sama, of course. Forgive me, please forgive me."

"Move! Get out of my fucking sight!"

Hanzo did not turn to see Takahashi's reaction. Following the Iwata enforcer tripping over his own shoes, Hanzo returned to the restaurant's VIP room.

 

***

 

Hanzo stepped out of the meeting and scanned the restaurant, always vigilant, always aware. There was Takahashi, by the exit; he was so handsome and slight that he looked comical among the thuggish Shimada enforcers.

"Shimada-san."

Hanzo and his father turned. Iwata-san, peacockish in his magenta suit:

"Shimada-san, I hoped you might let me speak with you privately."

Goro-sama quirked an eyebrow. "Business is over with. I mean to go and drink with my sons." Goro covered his mouth and let loose a cough so deep it sounded like it was tearing his throat. Hanzo kept still, kept composed. He glanced to the empty space next to himself.

"I want to ask you about a personal matter, as a friend might."

Hanzo did not like Iwata-san, nor see any reason his father should entertain this imposition. However, he remained dutifully silent, and waited for his father's response.

"Okay," said Goro. Iwata-san bowed his head.

"Please, give me just a moment. I've already drunk quite a bit."

Goro nodded to him, and Hanzo did the same out of courtesy. Iwata crossed the restaurant and disappeared into the men's bathroom.

Idly, Goro-sama went over to the plate glass windows. Hanzo took a bracing breath and followed him there, toes curling in his shoes as he looked out onto Fukuoka. It was foggy tonight, just as it had been the last time; Hanzo felt a fleeting ache of nostalgia. For what, he asked himself, for times had not been particularly better then than they were now. Feelings were strange things he often wished he could do away with entirely.

"Father, there is something that has been bothering me."

"What's that?"

Hanzo glanced to the far end of the restaurant, at Takahashi, for the briefest time. Then he looked at his feet, and sighed.

"The last time we were here, two years ago, you said to Iwata-san that you 'prefer to play black'."

"Mmhmm?"

"You made a reference to Chess. Not Go, correct?"

"I see nothing escapes you."

"Father, why did you use a Chess analogy, rather than _Shogi?_

Goro-sama smiled.

" _Shogi_ is a game of constant attack, ruthless aggression," began Shimada-sama. "Whichever player has the tempo on the board will almost always win, regardless of how many pieces they have lost. I don't like that."

Shimada motioned with his hand at some of the suited men in the restaurant with them--the half-dozen Iwata enforcers waiting for their _oyabun_ to return from the toilet.

"See how few men Daimon brought with him, compared to us? In Chess, the emphasis is on defense. Building an impenetrable blockade, forcing your enemy into a corner and exhausting all their strength." Shimada squeezed a fist and punched the air. "Chess is a perfect game, Han-kun. You should learn to play it."

"I know the rules."

"But you don't know the game. I will teach you."

The cherry red laser light blinked at the corner of Hanzo's vision. Up there above the heavy clouds of Fukuoka, his fear of heights made him hesitate, just long enough to take a sharp inward breath, and for the shot to puncture his father's forehead.

Hanzo caught Goro-sama's collapsing weight and threw himself back, used both legs to kick over a table. The ensuing panic was eerily quiet; stumbling footsteps, chairs falling over, cursing. Only one scream, a man's.

"Ambulance," Hanzo yelled to Takahashi across the restaurant. "Call an ambulance!" It took Takahashi a moment to process the words before he obeyed. Hanzo realized, as he watched Daimon Iwata and his men rushing out the door, that they had been had; he had his theories about who had taken the shot, but Iwata had handed them the opportunity.

He knew, as well, that the ambulance would be pointless. Goro-sama's soul had departed the moment the bullet pierced his skull. Hanzo held his father's head to his chest, hot blood soaking into his white shirt and dribbling down his hands, and he gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt, closed his eyes and silently wished another bullet would come for him, too.

It had only taken being wrong once; and Genji had not been here.

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

Suddenly, so many became so few. The shrine at Hanamura had held dozens of mourners; only four waited inside the crematorium for Shimada-sama's remains. Goro's widow, Akane, stared thin-lipped at Yuki across the sparse parlor.

"I don't think she should be here," said the old woman. "You aren't married, yet."

Yuki clutched Hanzo's hand, and both she and Genji cowed away from his voice:

"He will be placed next to our mother. He married your name. You are the stranger in this room. How dare you?"

This Akane said nothing and looked at her lap.

They sat for two hours while the body was burned, and after Shimada-sama's remains had cooled, only two were led to the table where his ashes and bones awaited: Shimada Hanzo, in a suit the color of milk, and Shimada Genji in one dark as soot. Neither brother exchanged word or look while, with lacquered chopsticks, they moved the bone fragments one at a time; from the tray to an urn painted with two curling dragons, one white and one black. First the feet, and pieces of the head last.

A lump of something dark and hard lay underneath a curved chunk of Shimada-sama's skull. This Hanzo picked up with the chopsticks, and Genji leaned over to see it as well. Melted metal, plastic, a cracked piece of glass.

"Is that… an eye?" asked Genji, his eyebrows lifting. "Father had a false eye?"

"That's exactly what it is. It's cybernetic. Look at the wires, here."

Genji stared at the ruined thing, mouth slack. "Did you know he had that?"

Hanzo twisted the eye around to examine it. "No, I didn't."

"How did he--did anyone know?" Genji's voice quavered.

"Perhaps he lost it before we were born. Perhaps he offered it to his former _oyabun_ as redress. Maybe he had a cancer, and quietly had it removed. But we'll never know, nor will we tell anyone." Hanzo read Genji's expression of shock. "Are you ashamed of this? Ashamed of father?"

Genji rapidly shook his head. "No! I just would like to have known…"

Hanzo said nothing else. He placed the eye in the urn, _plonk,_ and it wasn't to be spoken of again. He flicked a speck of ash from the cuff of his white sleeve.

 

***

 

Hanzo had three conversations that day, outside the temple where they placed Shimada-sama in the family shrine. They were all short.

On the temple steps, one of his father's--no, one of _his_ aides handed him a phone. The first conversation was with Jack Morrison.

"Mr. Shimada. Don't hang up."

"Why would I want to speak to you?"

"Overwatch didn't kill your father. You have my deepest condolences."

"Well, thank goodness I have those, at least."

Morrison sighed. "You don't believe me."

"No."

"Mr. Shimada, I am telling you, on record, on my word. I had nothing to do with the murder of your father."

"Then you had best learn who in your organization stands to benefit from his death."

"Why don't you think it was one of his enemies in your country? Another yakuza boss?" Morrison paused. "Do you know something that I don't?"

"You have some digging to do, 'Jack'. _Sayonara."_

 

_***_

 

The second conversation was with Yuki, under the leafless winter branches of a cherry blossom tree next to the temple's parking lot. Yuki found Hanzo standing there, staring up at the steps, silent. She took one of his hands in her own silk-gloved fingers and squeezed.

"Tell me what I can do," she said.

Hanzo did not look at her. "Nothing."

Yuki bowed her head. "I didn't think so." She stared at Hanzo's face, the hard lines of his mouth, the eyes heavy from poor sleep. "What happens now?"

"I have a meeting with the chairmen tonight, to discuss the future."

"And what is in the future?"

"Genji and I take over everything. We begin building respect. We continue as ever."

"What about us?"

Hanzo still would not take his gaze away from the temple steps. "We must get married."

"Alright. When?"

"I haven't decided yet." He took his hand back, and put it in his pocket. "Let me spend tonight alone. I've already arranged to have you driven home. Go see your mother."

"Alright."

"I will call you in the morning. I promise."

Yuki folded her hands and bowed. "Of course. I understand."

Finally, Hanzo looked at her. "You are lovely today. Even in black."

Yuki smiled. She bowed again, and Hanzo watched her walk away, watched her duck her head to climb into the back of a shining black sedan. It would be the last time he ever saw her. He did not watch the car drive away.

 

***

 

The third was with his brother. Hanzo spotted Genji in the stream of black suits descending the temple stairs. Wordlessly they began to walk in step, to a corner of the parking lot, where Genji drew a pack of cigarettes. Hanzo bristled.

"I thought you quit."

"I don't care enough today." Genji lit it. "One won't kill me. You want one?"

"I think that I do."

It was three o'clock, and they stood there smoking together in the afternoon shade. Hanzo kept glancing at Genji, expecting, demanding of him to speak first. Genji kept staring at his feet or into the distance.

"This means that things must change," said Hanzo, fed up. "Tonight we have a meeting with the chairmen. I will urge them to be lenient with you until you graduate, then--"

"I'm not graduating," said Genji. "I'm not going to your meeting. I'm not doing any of this. I'm out."

Hanzo bit his tongue, and breathed in. "You do not have a choice."

"Yes, I do. And I'm done. I'm leaving for Paris tonight."

Hanzo tightened his fingers, desperately choking down the urge to lash out. He crushed the end of the cigarette and the lit cherry fell to the concrete.

"Father is dead now. It is time you begun acting like a man. Do you understand? Father is dead, and you didn't even see him die!"

Hanzo shoved Genji's shoulder; Genji twisted away. "Don't touch me!"

"I told him, again and again and again, to stop coddling you! To stop wiping your bottom, letting you play around and chase girls and piss away his money. I will not tolerate your shameful life for another second!"

"Or what?"

Hanzo stepped back as if struck. His eyebrow twitched. He growled, "Or… _what?"_

"Yeah, or what? If you're going to stop me, then stop me."

Hanzo did not have an answer. His heart fluttered and he became almost dizzy with anger, with shame. He tried to speak, but Genji interrupted him.

"You've always said father was so easy on me. Don't you get it, after all this time? Father didn't _care_ what I did. I wasn't his son--you were."

"You imbecile. It doesn't matter if he loved you. He was your father. It was your duty to love _him."_

Genji just rolled his eyes. "I'll be home tonight to pick up my things. You can say goodbye if you want. I'll see you around, big brother." Then he stuck one hand in his pocket and walked away.

"Don't walk away from me!" Hanzo called after his brother, demanding, watching helplessly as Genji hailed a passing taxi and climbed in.

"Genji!" The taxi began to drive away. Hanzo chased after it, running for half a block, until it was too fast for even him to keep up.  _"Genji!"_

Genji stuck his hand out the window to flick away his cigarette butt, then the cab rounded a corner, and he was gone.

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

_TW: Please be advised this chapter deals with suicide._

 

Hanzo had never been at the head of father's table before. He always sat to the side, opposite Uwaru-san and next to Genji's often-empty seat. Now Uwaru-san sat to his right, and the mirrored black surface seemed too long, impractically long. He had to raise his voice to speak, and raising his voice made him feel angry. The emptiness of the two seats to his left thrummed like a deep bass note in his ribcage.

The moment of silence ended. The seven men at the table looked at Hanzo, and it took several seconds before he could think of what to say.

"It is my honorable duty to take the place of my father, Shimada Goro," he said. "I am still young, but I have been educated my entire life for this eventuality. I expect the same treatment from you that you would give to him. In time, I will prove myself worthy of the same respect you held for him."

His heart beat five times before anyone replied. The first to speak was ratlike Yamada-san.

"Where is your brother?"

He had known the question was coming, like a sword blow telegraphed hours in advance. He deflected it.

"Genji is overcome with grief, and not yet prepared to rise to the responsibility of the clan," said Hanzo, heart throbbing like a too-tight fist. "I will of course oversee the remainder of his martial training, and ensure that he becomes ready to fulfill the obligations of his blood. Genji will be with us soon."

It was a mark of the board's respect for Hanzo's father that nobody interrupted him. They were ready with their answers. Yamada-san simply shook his head; the next one to speak was mountainous Kimura, belly-deep voice like seething magma.

"You disrespect us by pretending the problem does not exist," rumbled Kimura. "Our high regard for Goro-sama kept Genji comfortable, even as he sapped your father's honor, a tick bloated with horse's blood. Now, Goro-sama is not here."

Kou-san, the shape and color of a cinder block, agreed. "You and your brother are joined. Your honor is linked. If you cannot bring him to heel, then we cannot trust you to sit at the head of this table."

Hanzo's mouth was dry. He leaned forward, reaching for a tall glass and then the pitcher of chilled cucumber water. An aide rushed forward and their hands touched the pitcher's handle simultaneously.

"Ahh," Hanzo grunted, waving the servant away; he poured himself a glass, and drank it slowly, pausing after each gulp. He realized instantly, before the liquid touched his lips, that he had potentially made a fool of himself. He had intended to look independent, decisive, instead performing the work of a mere lickboot in front of the assembly; or, would it have been worse to let the aide pour his drink, and appear a spoiled upstart brat, waited on hand and foot? It wasn't like the concrete rule of taking a business card in both hands; his father would tailor his action to the situation. As the last of the water went down his throat he begged time itself for one more year, six more months, one more week to observe his father before taking the throne. It would not come.

Still thirsty, still recovering from his subordinates' words, Hanzo placed one fist on the table, the other in his lap. Both quivered from tightness. Hanzo looked down at his hand, at the whitened knuckles, the blue vein across the surface. He did not lift his head when he spoke.

"I am not my brother."

Four heartbeats passed. Kimura was the one to reply.

"Yes," he said, "You are."

Hanzo swallowed. He knew the answer to his question before he asked it.

"And if he still refuses?"

Uwaru-san, Goro's right hand, spoke for the gathering. "You must save face. You must retain your honor."

###

Hanzo paid for his room with a regular credit card in his own name. He rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. Inside that motionless chamber of gold walls he mused about the last time he had stood in an elevator with his father. Then he recalled the earliest time he could remember riding one: he had been four years old, in Mitsukoshi department store with his mother and father, and one-year-old Genji riding in a baby stroller. Their parents had argued; their mother had been concerned that Genji was past the age when he should be able to walk on his own, and yet would not. Their father had assured her he was simply a late developer. If Hanzo were notso mad at Genji at that moment, the memory would have amused him.

In his suite he took a long, hot bath, quiet and private. He left the bathroom door open so he could see the floor-to-ceiling windows, and relished in the gentle thrum of anxiety in his ribcage caused by the knowledge of height. He found the flame of anger leaving him in favor of a dull, revelatory acceptance, as if the bathwater were putting it out; the acquiescence of a reader reaching the climax of a novel and thinking _'Ah, so that's how it goes.'_ He saw his life as one of the unearthed museum fossils that had fascinated him as a child, carefully lifted and brushed until every facet was visible.

He called for room service, sitting mutely to watch the news as he waited. A young man arrived with a cart carrying his grilled salmon and sake, as well as his one foreign indulgence, a bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream.

"Will there be anything else?"

Hanzo mused privately that he might ask the young man to be his second, and it would be terribly, morbidly funny. He didn't.

He ate his salmon in solitude, luxuriating in each mouthful. He yelled _"Kanpai!"_ to nobody as he tipped the sake down his throat. He could not help eating the delicious ice cream too fast, wishing when it was all gone that he had one or two more scoops. He considered ordering more--why not?--but denied himself this extravagance.

He collected both towels from the bathroom and laid them on the floor before the bed. He untied his cloth belt and stood near-naked. The  tantō had been waiting patiently on the nightstand, inside its cherry-wood and acrylic casing, thumb-printed with the clan insignia. It had waited for him to pick it up, and take it to the floor where he had laid the towels, and to kneel. 

He was no good with poems; so he did not write one.

He slid the blade into the light, and took it with both hands, pointed at his belly.

"Well, then."

On the bed, ensconced in the pocket of his discarded jacket, his cellphone buzzed. He turned his head to make sure he had heard correctly, then he sheathed the knife and got up to answer it. He was rubbish with poetry, but could recognize it.

At first he did not believe the display, attributed it to the stress of his mental state, but read it again and again and it remained the same: _Genji calling._

He was rubbish with poetry, but could recognize it.

He placed the phone to his ear, and breathed out. "Genji?"

"…Seen my charger?…somewhere…" Genji's voice was distant, flippant.

"What?"

"…Not getting on an eight hour flight without…" The sounds of rustling, footsteps, of a duffel bag zipper.

Hanzo pinched the knotted muscles at the bridge of his nose. The phone drifted away from his ear.

"One final insult," said Hanzo, and moved to end the call; but he stopped. There was another voice.

"Don't see it… did you leave it in…"

Hanzo pressed the phone hard against his ear. The room on the other end lit up in red in his head, as ice-cold anger flooded up from his stomach.

"I like this shirt! Can I have it?"

"No…"

"Genji-kun! Please?"

The mental silhouettes of his brother and Takahashi cavorted about the bedroom, opening drawers, throwing clothes into a pile, touching, kissing, laughing.

Hanzo put the phone down, and he got dressed.

 

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

_3 years ago_

 

"Boom boom boom… room room room. Boom boom boom… room room room."

The mirror pressed ice-cold into his forehead. His skin left a smudged impression as he leaned back. Hanzo lazily, blearily eyed the lean marionette in the mirror, tilted its head around, swishing the liquor haze like a kappa's water.

"Boom boom boom… room room room. Boom boom boom… room room room."

He found himself bracing for the gaps in the beat overhead, electronic bass notes forming a not-unpleasant womb around his skull, between which he felt he was falling into a pit, perhaps a little nauseous. Rather than endure the slow up-bubble of the need to vomit, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and bent forward to spray brown water flecked with bits of fish and rice into the sink's plughole, settling his stomach quickly, and making more room.

"Boom boom boom… room room room. Boom boom boom… room room room."

The rapper mumbled, postulating in a low and nasal monotone, and Hanzo could not understand the English. The most he picked up were two words during the chorus.

"Boom boom boom… room room room. Boom boom boom… room room room."

Hanzo left the bathroom and reentered the club, bathed again in ice-blue light. Thewiry puppet of himself followed every step upside-down across the polished floor. Men in suits watched him with folded hands, staying out of his way but as present and consistent as the droning bass.

He returned to the couches and poured a fresh whiskey; Dojima's sake was so awful Hanzo was willing to subvert his principles for one evening. Dojima was guffawing at something Genji had said, picking a slice of sashimi from the back of a naked woman lying on the obsidian tabletop, sticking it in his cheek and then laughing with his mouth full. Genji, for his part, finished meting out a line of cocaine on his woman's buttock and then sniffing it up.

Hanzo slumped in his seat. Bald and burly Dojima pointed at him with chopsticks.

"You've got something there."

Hanzo picked a kernel of regurgitated rice from his lip, and grunted. His head tilted back and he stared at the ceiling.

"Urgh! I'm too hyped." Genji drummed on his seat cushions and the woman's behind, then he wiped his nose and sniffed. "This place needs a Tekken machine. Hanzo! Don't you think?"

Hanzo lazily batted a hand at the air. Genji dismissed him, and hopped over the back of the couch. He began to box the air, feet dancing here and there around an opponent only he could see.

Dojima kept laughing. "Goro has raised some fine boys." He plucked another slice of sashimi from the woman's back to stick in his mouth and kept laughing, laughing. "I will be more than happy to reconsider his offer. Grease a few palms."

Hanzo's head fell back down, chin touching his collarbone. He turned up the corner of his lip.

"Heh. Fine boys. That what gets you off, baldy?"

Dojima's eyes popped. Hanzo grinned, tonguing his front teeth; then he frowned as Dojima tossed his head back and broke into another peal of full-throated laughter.

"Stop laughing, you pig-faced fuckhead!"

Now his eyes were bulging. The sushi caught in his throat and he choked on his own extinguished mirth. He stared daggers at Hanzo, unable to form a reply. Genji watched, muscles taut as drumskins.

"Where did you put the poison? In the sushi?" Hanzo sat forward. "No, I bet it was the sake. That's why it tasted so fucking terrible."

"Poison!"

"You probably cut Genji's drugs. Genji! You hear me? You probably snorted poison."

"Don't fuck with me, Hanzo," said Genji, his hands trembling. "That's not funny. Don't joke about that."

"But it didn't work," Hanzo continued, as Dojima sputtered and choked, wordless. "So that's why your men have got all their heaters ready to blow, like they're squeezing their dicks."

Hanzo slammed his palms on the obsidian tabletop. Two of the nude women remained still; the one nearest Hanzo began to shake, her hands quivering as she struggled not to get up and flee. "Wouldn't that be impressive? A two-bit trafficker like Dojima, taking out Goro Shimada's boys?" Truly, his suspicions were flimsy at best. He just hated Dojima, and his cheap suits, and his cheap sake, and his cheap whores. "Sounds like a power move, to me. Well? What are you waiting for? You think you can take us?"

Dojima should have had steam banging out from his ears, his eyes, his mouth, the collar of his shirt. In his right hand, he squeezed his chopsticks so tight they snapped in the middle.

"What are you waiting for, ugly?" Hanzo pounded his fist on the table. "Give the order. Do it!"

Dojima's hand went into his coat, slow and unpracticed, an overfed pet snake's inept strike. Before the handgun had left his jacket his head whipped back, one of Genji's throwing stars sticking at an angle out of his forehead, stopped in spinning flight by thick bone.

"The girls, the girls!" Genji moved with whip-crack anxiety, throwing shurikens over-arm, slashing wrists and piercing skulls faster than the guns could come out. Hanzo obeyed Genji's mumble-shouted instruction; as the naked sushi girls clambered for a place to hide from the ensuing violence, Hanzo rasped "Down here," and upended the black crystal table, sending platters and glass clanking and clattering and shattering. Bullets cracked against its opposite surface like hailstones; Genji's shurikens flew by overhead.

"Help me, brother!" Genji's voice implored from somewhere Hanzo could not pinpoint, between the gunshots, the bass drone and the girls endlessly cursing at him in languages that were not Japanese.

There, on the mirrored floor by the corner of the overturned table, a tipped brown bottle of Suntory, whiskey pooling around it like an invalid's puddle of piss. He reached for it and took a good slug, and turned to the girls.

"Any of you have a gun?"

_"What?!"_

Hanzo wiped his mouth and looked for the nearest thug. There was one trying to circle around and get to him from the side; Hanzo whipped the bottle through the air and it exploded on the gunman's face. Hanzo drunkenly shot across the floor, skidding to a halt and snatching up the dropped SMG.

He was clumsy with the firearm, the shaking recoil numbing his fingers. He sprayed the thing like a fire hose, dropping two men at the knees. Shell casings tinkled on the mirrored floor, making him think of wind chimes. He felt the snake bite of a bullet grazing his left shoulder. In moments, the magazine was empty; he tossed the weapon aside and grabbed another, and opened up again.

The whole thing was over in mere seconds. Between Hanzo's careless, lethal spray and Genji's precision shuriken, Dojima's men were dead or had fled. Hanzo climbed to his feet and stepped through blood and shell casings, broken glass and spilled liquor. The club beyond the door had emptied like a flushed toilet, leaving the Shimada brothers alone with the naked girls and the dead. The pounding bass continued to vibrate the floor, passing seamlessly from one song into the next.

Genji threw his hands up in the air.

_"Hotline Miami! Yahooo!"_

Then he had his arms around Hanzo, a throwing star still dangling from one finger as he rocked them back and forth. Hanzo gingerly returned the hug, being more careful not to slip in blood.

"Brother, we are _bad motherfuckers!"_ Genji said in English. "I love you, brother. I love you!" he said in Japanese.

"We need to leave," Hanzo muttered. "And I think I need to throw up."

Genji was still coked up. He began to shadowbox his invisible adversary once again.

"When we take over, we're gonna be the kings of this fucking game," Genji declared through huffing, puffing breaths. "No one's gonna fuck with us."

The naked women had recovered their clothes from the back rooms and were hurrying out of the club. Hanzo wiped flecks of gore from his face. He felt a dull desire to throw up again. He wondered if he was becoming too much like Genji, or too much like his father.

 ### 

_3 seconds ago_

 

Hanzo knew they could hear his footsteps coming down the hall. He wanted to be heard.

He drew his sword, and slashed an X in the _fusuma_ door, sliced through the paper scene of koi swimming upstream, heard Takahashi's shrill scream of surprise.

Hanzo stepped through and into Genji's room, saw Takahashi cower pathetically in the corner and the duffel bags with jacket sleeves sticking out, and then his eyes met Genji's. Genji stood with his back against the wall, taking up the longsword from its display, next to the black-and-white portrait of their mother.

Hanzo swallowed a lump of his own anger, and pointed the tip of his heirloom blade.

"Hanzo."

"No more."

 

 

=

_Hey! If you're enjoying my fanfic, please consider swinging by my website[briwoodfiction.com](http://briwoodfiction.com) to check out my paranormal detective series THE ANALYST TOM BELL. I can also be found at franklytriggering.tumblr.com. Thanks a bunch for reading!_


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